The Light at the end of the Tunnel
by sirena1
Summary: Cordelia didn't die at the end of Season 5. She continues to live life, haunted by her mistakes and in great pain from her life. The PTB finally decide to send someone to help before it becomes too late. Doyle. CD shipfic.
1. Back From the Dead

Okay, I just finished Second Chance, and I wanted to do another Doyle story. So here we go again. I don't know how regular updates will be. I think I've done relatively well with the CD stories I've done, so I hope this sticks to form. My writing style has changed a lot, and I'm a bit preoccupied with my fourth novel right now, so I can't make any promises. Also, I'm starting Ohio State University in the fall, so I can't be sure if I'll even be writing at all come September.

Title: Light at the end of the Tunnel

Rating: R. unusual for me I know, but this is going to start off dark, and highly sexual, and work it's way toward being lighter.

Summary: Cordelia doesn't die at the end of Season 5 and Fred is herself. Connor is still gone, and Angel still owns Wolfram and Hart. It becomes obvious to the PTB that if they don't do something to alleviate the anguish Cordelia is in, that she will die, either from a demon or by her own hand. So they send the one person who started it all. One Allan Francis Doyle to save her.

Dedication: To Glenn Quinn. I'll never forget your nine episodes, and neither will millions of other people. You touched our lives and you live on in our hearts and through our keyboards. You'll never be forgotten.

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Cordelia Chase smiled brightly at the customer at Wolfram and Hart. She jotted down information and told them she'd get back to them if she found anything. She already knew she would. But not today. It was five and she was off duty. Running her fingers through her short cap of chocolate brown hair, she pulled on her leather jacket and picked up her purse, already yanking her keys out of it.

She poked her head in Angel's office, grinned at him, the same smile she reserved for clients and her parents. "I'm heading home. See you tomorrow?"

"Bright and early. Just like always." Angel barely glanced up from his paperwork. "You all right?"

"Peachy. Night."

"Night. Will you be available for patrol tomorrow?"

"Should be. Unless something comes up."

"All right. I'll mark you down on the schedule."

Cordelia waved over one shoulder as she left the office and breezed down the hall, the embodiment of success in her ivory silk suit, red blouse and red heels. She looked sleek, and professional, not a hair out of place, not one chipped fingernail. And inside, she was crumbling. Just as she always did.

Her life had tossed her around carelessly, left her beaten, broken, more times than she could count. And each time she had built it again, started over, moved past everything. This time, she wasn't so sure she could do that.

Nothing was the same. Angel was so distant. Ever since the Jasmine fiasco and hell on Earth and all that good stuff. Now he owned Wolfram and Hart and Spike was working with them, and Fred was with Wesley, which meant everyone worried about Gunn. And all of it had been her fault. For thinking that she could possibly be in love with Connor. It had been a moment of insanity, one that had nearly ended the world.

She couldn't blame him for wanting to keep his distance. She would have too, in his position. But it hurt desperately to feel so guilty and know there was no way that she could fix it. So she put on a face every day. One that fooled everyone, even herself at times. She seemed fine, perfect, holding together. While inside she was falling apart.

Each night, when she went home, she would sit down in front of her TV, nurse a bottle of wine, or scotch or whiskey, whatever she had handy and play a tape over and over again. And each time, when it got to the line, 'is that it? Am I done? she would begin to cry, asking herself those same questions. Questions to which there were no answers.

Sometimes it became too much and she would drink the whole bottle, masking the pain with drunkenness. Others she wanted it to hurt, wouldn't take a sip for fear of dulling the knife that was embedded in her heart. Always she wished for someone to make it hurt less, for someone to help her get through one more day and one more night. She always made it, but hardly ever was it without thought of ending it all.

There was a gun with one bullet in her bedside table. A bottle full of Valium in her medicine cabinet, a sharp butcher knife under her sink. She always entertained those thoughts, then discarded them, choosing to fight one more day, hoping against hope that it would get better. Rising each morning to realize that things hadn't improved overnight, that they were just as bad as they had been, and that she couldn't make it better. Then she'd try to drown herself in the shower, and when that didn't work, she'd get dressed, put on her face and go to work.

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Cordelia arrived home, felt faint stirrings as Dennis moved throughout the apartment. He was so worried about her, and it pained her to know that she couldn't hide her state from him. She changed quickly, noticing that she'd lost more weight, enough to the point that looking in the mirror at herself was sickening. She was bone thin. She decided on a whim to actually eat dinner.

Dinner was half a pack of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of wine, which she had decided would be her alcohol of the night. She finished the cookies, sat down on the floor in front of the TV, and pushed play on the VCR. The screen was fuzzy at first, then cleared to reveal her hero.

Hair black as coal, shiny, curly. A face drawn taut over great bones. Handsome features in his own way, but the thing that stood out the most were the bright blue eyes, framed by thick lashes and only slightly bushy eyebrows. His frame was thin but not skinny, and he was tall, but not too tall, skimming six foot to her five seven.

His fashion sense was atrocious. The brown leather jacket hideous. No one knew it still resided in her closet. She hadn't taken it out in five years. But it was there and she'd push everything away every once in a while, look at it, then press her face into the soft leather and inhale the smell of him. Aftershave, slightly musky, coffee, tobacco from the bars he'd frequented with slight undertones of alcohol. It was familiar, comforting.

Allen Francis Doyle had died much before his time. And the two sentences she seemed to be living by were forever capture. Just as he was. On a video tape, one she had the only copy of, and one that she would play for forever. 'Is this it? Am I done?'

Oh God, she should have said no. Cordelia burst into tears as those lines were uttered with an Irish brogue, from a face lit with good humor and full of life. Eyes that spoke of promises and safety and adoration. She should have said no. Said that he's just begun. She should have given him a chance. Things could have been different.

If she'd done that one thing differently, maybe she wouldn't be seriously considering killing herself. Maybe she wouldn't feel like if she didn't, she'd die anyway. Maybe life would be worth living. Maybe she'd have had a chance to be happy. Maybe the world wouldn't have almost ended, and Connor would still be a baby, and Jasmine would never have been born. So many things could have been differently.

Cordelia curled into a ball, sobs wracking her emaciated form. She thought of the gun, the pills, the knife and sobbed harder. She hated her life. She felt so helpless, so unable to make things better. Out of options. Hopeless. As she sobbed, Cordelia felt her last licks of hope get extinguished. And that left her feeling empty.

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"Something must be done." The female Oracle said to her brother, regarding him sternly. She was going to put her foot down and he was not going to change her mind.

"It is not our place. She is to deal with her own hardships."

"They are not her hardships, they are ours. We put too many burdens on her. Will we sit and do nothing while one of our greatest assets suffers for something not of her own doing?"

"There is nothing to be done. Perhaps we should not let anything else be put upon her for a time."

"That is not good enough, Brother. We must send her someone."

"Who?"

"The Promised One. The Messenger. The one for which her heart cries out."

"He is dead, and has been for six years. His body is dust."

"A body can be recreated. His soul lives on. And it is needed."

"We cannot know that he will do any good."

"No, but without someone who sees that she is on the verge of death, she will die. And if she takes her own life, she will go to Hell. That cannot happen. She is still needed. And it was not his time to die."

"That is not our concern."

"With or without you, Brother, the Messenger will be brought back. The world needs him. The world needs them both."

"Very well. We will do it. But if this doesn't work, Sister, I am taking none of the blame."

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Doyle found himself in the warehouse where he had died. Except, he wasn't dead. He didn't feel dead, and he didn't feel fried. He was whole, seemingly healthy and inexplicably anxious to go see Cordelia. Without stopping to question why he was back and for how long, he struck out in the direction of her apartment.

The door was unlocked when he arrived, which was weird for Cordelia. He pushed it open, and felt Dennis moving back and forth. The TV was fuzzy, a half drank bottle of wine on the floor beside the couch. Dennis wasn't throwing a fit, so he took it that the ghost knew he was one of the good guys. He heard the shower running and walked toward the bathroom. And saw blood.

His heart sank and his stomach clenched. He ripped back the shower curtain and found Cordelia huddled in one corner, her skin bleeding from where she had scrubbed so hard, both wrists seeping blood. She was pale, seemed to be barely breathing. She'd lost too much blood.

She had tried to kill herself. Doyle grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her shivering form, lifted her from the shower. He cradled her too thin body against his much larger one and swiftly carried her into the bedroom. What had happened to her that could have caused her to do what she had?

Cordelia opened her eyes, and the rich brown of them met the bright blue of his. "Doyle?"

"It's me, Princess. Guess I know why they sent me back now. Do ye need to go to the hospital, darlin'?"

Cordelia shook her head. "I'll be all right. I tried to kill myself." She whispered, curling into him. "I tried to make it all go away. My God, Doyle it all hurts so bad I couldn't take it anymore. Nothing feels good, nothing makes me feel alive."

Doyle rocked her back and forth slowly, his own heart bleeding for her. "Shh, I'm here now, sweetheart. It'll all be okay."

"Make it stop hurting, Doyle. Please, just make it all go away. Make me stop thinking for one night. I feel like I'm already dead."

Doyle held her closer, shocked to the bone. His bright, gorgeous, lively Cordelia had become someone who didn't eat, who drank until she couldn't feel, and who had tried to take her own life because she felt she couldn't face the pain.

"My God, Princess, what's happened to you?"

"Life." Cordelia said weakly, burrowing her head in his chest. "Am I dying? You're dead. This has to be a dream. Or a vision. Are you an angel now Doyle? Like the light at the end of the tunnel?"

"No. I'm real enough. The PTB sent me back. And now I know why, darlin'. You need me. And you aren't going to die. You'll feel awful come morning, but you aren't going to die."

"I don't really want to die. I just want the pain to go away."

"It will. I'm going to help you."

"Doyle?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"I love you."


	2. Life Hurts

Chapter 2 guys. I'm on a roll. I think there might be some sex involved in this chapter. Not the nice, gentle type I normally like to write, but something more animalistic, less emotional, more about the physical. So be prepared for that. It's important to the story line.

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Cordelia regained consciousness slowly. She looked around, realized she was in her bed. She hadn't slept in her bed in months. Normally passed out on the couch. Had she gotten there herself? Or had someone put her there?

She'd had a wonderful dream about Doyle. He'd been there, holding and rocking her, telling her that everything would be okay, that he was going to help her. She moved, felt pain in every inch of her body. God it hurt to move. She looked at her wrists, noted the thick white bandages. Had she really tried to kill herself? Could she have possibly done that? Memories flooded back to her and she realized that she had.

She'd cut her wrists in the bathroom, then when it had become obvious that that wasn't going to kill her, she'd gotten in the shower and scrubbed herself until her skin had bled. And someone had gotten her out of the shower, dried her off and put her to bed. Doyle.

But no, Doyle was dead. He couldn't have done it. It had been a dream. Rising naked from bed, Cordelia went in search of a phone. She needed to call Angel, let him know she was taking the day off. But as she went into the kitchen, she saw a very familiar for sitting at her table, drinking a cup of coffee. He looked up when she walked in.

Cordelia's eyes locked onto Doyle's and it took her several seconds to realize that she was naked. When she did, she turned red and grabbed an afghan from the couch to wrap herself up in. Doyle stood and crossed the room.

"Feelin' better this mornin'?"

Cordelia looked up at him, amazed by what she was seeing. "Are you real?"

"The Powers sent me back to help you. So that's what I'm going to do."

"You're angry."

"Yes, I'm fucking angry!" Doyle roared. "You tried to kill yourself! Is it that bad, Cordelia? That you couldn't take living anymore? That you were willing to give up and die? How could you do that? You've got your whole life ahead of you! You've got a life that needs living and you can't live it if you're dead!"

Cordelia sat, buried her face in her hands and sobbed. "I did it because I couldn't feel anything but hopelessness." She looked at him, "You were gone, Connor's gone, Angel's too busy with Wolfram and Hart to see me anymore, and he hates me anyway. Everyone is moving on with their own lives and I'm stuck here. I almost caused the world to end, Doyle! I've got more atoning to do than Angel! And I can't do it anymore. I can't. I can't wake up every day knowing that I'm going to feel like I should be dead. Like I've done all I can do and there's nothing left for me here. I can't take not knowing what it is to live. I don't know what being alive feels like anymore."

"Why? What the bloody hell happened to you?"

"I got your visions. You gave them to me when you died. And then Angel went psycho. He slept with Darla, they had a son. Connor. I was helping raise him, and then the visions began killing me. Humans can't take them; they do too much damage. So I became a half demon, like you. Then I Ascended, became one of the PTB. I came back, couldn't remember anything. Connor had gotten kidnapped and taken to a demon dimension so he was back and fully-grown. I slept with him. Got pregnant, gave birth to a demon that made everyone in the world her follower, and put me in a coma. The world almost ended, Doyle, and it was my fault. I've nearly died more times that I can count and I nearly cause the world to end. Single handedly. Angel and I were in love. And I slept with his son. Do you know how badly that had to have hurt him? I can't believe I did it to this day. When I woke up, Angel had taken over Wolfram and Hart. And he hated me. The look in his eyes when I woke up told me he'd have been happier if I'd died."

Doyle looked at her in disbelief. How had the bright, shining girl he'd known become this woman, this broken, beaten woman? "I'm sure he didn't."

"He did. He still does. I couldn't take it anymore, Doyle. I've been so alone, so lonely, and no one could see. I had everyone fooled. Even myself sometimes. I barely eat; I get drunk a lot. It helps dull it sometimes. I wanted to die. Just for it to be over. Just to be able to feel something."

Doyle rubbed his hands over his face. He had a lot of work ahead of him if he was going to help her get back on track. She was so close to giving up he could feel the desperation. But he had hope. She wanted help. And that meant she could be saved.

"All right, Delia, let me tell you what I know. I know that whenever it was that I died, you were so bright, so full of life, ready to face whatever problem got thrown at you. You were so strong, so stubborn. I didn't think anything would ever beat you."

"Nothing did." Cordelia sank into a chair, took his coffee cup and drank deeply. "I beat myself. I've been at this longer than you were, seen things you probably only dreamed of. And I got of sick of having it all pile up and feeling like the more I fought the more ground we lost. That was why I slept with Connor. I wanted to be able to feel alive again. And instead, I think that was what killed me. I'm not your 'Delia anymore, Doyle, I'm broken."

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It only took Doyle an hour to coax Cordelia back into bed. He gave her a tranquilizer and left her sleeping, surrounded by pillows. He went to the phone and got out her address book. Angel's cell phone was the first number. He dialed it without giving himself time to second-guess himself.

"Wolfram and Hart, Angel speaking."

"Angel, man, look, I know this if freaky, but it's Doyle."

Angel dropped the phone. The voice, it belonged to a man who had died six years before. He bent and retrieved the phone at the insistence of the voice. "Doyle?"

"That's me. Listen, I need you to get your undead ass over to Cordelia's apartment. Our girl tried to kill herself last night. She's all right. I got there in time, but you need to explain some things to me and you need to take a look at her."

"I'm on my way. And Doyle, be ready to explain some things of your own."

Doyle hung up without answering. And then he paced until one brooding vampire knocked on the door. Doyle opened it, and Angel looked him over, sniffing as if to make sure Doyle was who he said he was.

"How are you back?"

"I'm back because someone up there saw that Cordelia needed help." Doyle snapped, leading the way into the living room. "She slit her wrists last night, buddy. She was drowning in alcohol, and had scrubbed herself until she was bleeding in the shower. She wouldn't have died, it wasn't deep enough, but she wouldn't be a very pretty sight to have found this morning either."

"I don't see why I had to come over here. You've obviously gotten everything under control."

Doyle gaped at the man he had considered his best friend. "My God, Angel, do you hear yourself? Think about where she came from, what she overcame, what she's been through with you. The end of the world, me dying, Wesley, Connor, everything. Think about it and tell me you don't still love her."

Angel stalked into the kitchen. "I was in love with her."

"Then why do you act like you don't care? You don't look nonchalant when the woman you're in love with slits her own wrists because she says she already feels dead! She made some mistakes, sure, but we all do. As Angelus you tortured Buffy, killed that teacher, tortured Giles, and Wesley, almost raped Cordelia, and she forgave you because it wasn't you. She didn't have any memories when she slept with Connor and you know it. She was scared and looking for comfort."

"And it hurt." Angel said simply. "I don't know what to say to her, how to forgive her. What to do at all."

Doyle opened the bedroom door, gestured for Angel to walk over. "You can start by going in there and looking at her."

Angel stepped into the room and was shocked by what he saw. Cordelia was tangled in a sheet, one arm, a bandage prominent on her wrist flung over her head. Her shirt was riding up, and every rib could be clearly seen. Her face was bony, her eyes sunken in, skin sallow and pale. She looked like the life had been drained out of her.

"How long has she been like this?"

"I don't know. I've only been alive a few hours." Doyle said, stating the obvious. "She said ever since she woke up, however long ago that was."

"A year." Angel said in disbelief. "She's been sinking to this, doing this to herself for a year, and I didn't see it."

Doyle felt sympathy unwillingly rise up for the vampire. "She was hiding it, Angel. Don't be too hard on yourself. I need you to help her get better, not make her worse by moping."

"What are you going to do?"

Doyle shrugged. "What they sent me back here to do. First, I'm going to get those damned visions back from her. That's a fair part of what's wrong, I'd say. And then I'm going to help her. She still trusts me not to leave her if she makes a misstep."

"I'd have helped if she'd have asked."

"And she needed you to see on your own. Now, I want you to run some errands, or have someone run some errands for me."

Angel picked up a pen and paper. "Whatever you need, I'll get. I want her well, Doyle."

"Groceries. There's nothing to eat in that kitchen. Plenty of protein. I want her to put her weight back on. I need something to wear other than what I died in. And plenty of cleaning supplies. This place needs a scrubbing."

The apartment was cluttered, but not messy. Angel, however, knew what Doyle meant. He, too, could smell the underlying aroma of blood, tears and alcohol. Getting rid of it would go a long way towards making Cordelia feel better.

"I'll have it here by five. Can you handle her today?"

Doyle nodded. "As soon as she wakes up, she and I are going to have a talk."

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Cordelia woke at two in the afternoon, feeling groggy and foggy headed. She looked around, as if unsure where she was, and her gaze fastened on Doyle, who was in the chair beside her bed, reading a book. "I keep thinking you're a dream and you aren't going to be there when I wake up."

Doyle shot her a grin as he put down the book. "I'm real enough. And here to stay as far as I know. Feel any better?"

"Some." Cordelia sat up, blanket clutched to her chest. She hadn't forgotten that he had seen her naked not too many hours earlier. "Have you been here all day?"

"I never left. Cleaned up a little, but didn't go anywhere." He stood, reached out to help her from the bed. "Come in here, I want to show you what I have been doing."

He led her to the living room, where he had stacks of newspapers on her coffee table. He eased her onto the couch and handed her one. She stared at it blankly. "This is from six years ago."

"Yeah. There are hundreds of these, Delia, my love, and each has an article in there about someone you helped save." He crouched in front of her, took her hands in his. "You make a difference, darlin', and there are hundreds of people in this city, not to mention the whole planet, that have you to thank for being alive. I know it gets overwhelming, and I know it hurts. But you help. Those people wouldn't be alive without you. You have to remember that."

"What now?" Cordelia asked, letting him take her hands in his. "I'm like a disease. Everyone I touch gets hurt in some way. You died right after I agreed to go out with you. Connor is now brainwashed and living with a family across the city because of me. Angel is so mopey and so hurt because of me. Buffy, Willow, Xander, Fred, Gunn, Wesley. I've hurt all of them. I don't know how they can even stand to look at me."

"Because they love you." Doyle said simply. "There's no clear answer other than that. I could go on about how it isn't your fault, but you wouldn't believe me. We all make mistakes, and we all hurt people we love. But the good you do, outweighs the bad. And as to what now? Well, we'll start by me taking back those skull splitin' visions."

"To do that, you have to kiss me."

"I know I do, darlin'. So let's get this over with, shall we?"

Cordelia wanted to control it, needed to control it. She grabbed his shirt, heaved him on top of her, way stronger than she looked, and fastened her mouth on his. Her arms banded around him, holding him tight, his body crushed her much smaller one.

Doyle was drowning. Her taste flooded him, his hands gripped her hair. Kissing her was like lightning. He dragged his mouth from hers and looked down at her. In time to watch as she sent buttons scattering as she ripped his shirt open. Her hands were on his chest, her mouth on his neck, teeth scraping the skin, driving him wild.

"'Delia, love, we can't-"

Cordelia cut off the rest of his sentence with her mouth, flipping their positions. She overbalanced, and they crashed to the floor, her on top of him. She tore herself from him long enough to yank her shirt over her head.

"Yes, we can." She panted, going to work on his pants. "I want to feel. Make me feel Doyle."

Damning them both to hell, and knowing it wouldn't make things any better, Doyle dragged her down to him. They weren't gentle. Hands bruised, teeth nipped, nails scraped as they fought their way out of clothes. There was no gentle foreplay the way he'd always wanted to make love to her. Nothing but the basic, the physical.

They explored each other, in a hurry, galloping toward the moment when the world would spin away and everything would cease to exist except for them. She mounted him, taking him in with one jerk of his hips. She didn't pause, started riding, hard and fast, his hands on her hips, bruising her tender flesh.

Doyle rolled her over, pounded into her, over and over again, unable to get enough of her. Her body went rigid, arched as he fastened his mouth on a nipple. Her nails dug into his back, leaving marks, drawing blood. And as she rocketed over the edge into orgasm, her teeth sank into a tendon on his shoulder, muffling her scream. He followed her a moment later.

It hadn't been gentle. Had only been sex. It hadn't been about romance or flowers, but about release. It had been rough, leaving both participants bruised and Doyle bleeding from her scratches. It wasn't the way that either had imagined their first time. And as reality sank in, Cordelia turned into him and cried.


	3. Hope For the Future

Here we go, Chapter 3. Please review, guys. I haven't gotten nearly enough reviews. I want suggestions on where you'd like this to go, I'll even take constructive criticism. The point of m posting what I write is as much to supplement my skills as a writer as it is to entertain all of you. So please, review more. Even if you hate it.

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When Angel returned with what Doyle had requested, the Irish half demon answered the door looking worse for wear. His shirt was button -less, his hair mussed and messy, a bite on one side of his neck, scratches on his chest. There were several bruises on his arms.

"Did she attack you or did you bang her?" Angel asked bluntly, setting everything on the table. Doyle rubbed his face, tried to smooth his hair.

"Both." He went through the bags, placing his clothing in the living room and beginning to unpack the groceries. "Go talk to her, would you? She's cried herself out and is now soaking in the bathtub. She won't talk to me. No damn wonder after what I did."

"Hey, it isn't like you forced her to do anything she didn't want to."

"I took advantage of her vulnerability."

"You took advantage of each other. You aren't exactly batting a thousand, Doyle. You were just resurrected. You probably don't even know what day it is, or what the hell has happened in the last six years. Maybe, you weren't just sent here to help her. Maybe you were sent here to help one another."

"What do you mean?"

"That maybe the best help for her is being able to help someone else. To see that she's making a difference."

"You aren't angry about what happened?"

Angel shook his head. "I lost her a long time ago. What we almost had was a love borne out of friendship, of knowing each other inside out. We never had a spark. Just contentment."

"But it still hurts."

"Like a bitch." Angel headed toward the bathroom. "But life wasn't made to be easy."

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Cordelia was standing in the tub, wrapped in a towel when Angel walked in. She took one look at him, at the worry blatantly evident in his eyes and walked into his arms. He held her close, carefully, half afraid that he was going to break her. "I thought you hated me." She whispered brokenly into his chest. "God, Angel, I've needed you."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm here now."

Cordelia looked up. "Ironic, isn't it? That when you're finally ready to be there to help me through everything that happened, I don't need you to be."

The words hurt, but he had known they were coming, wasn't surprised by them in the least. He held her tighter for a moment, then stepped back. "I'm here if you need me."

"I know. And that helps, Angel. It really does. I just want things to feel again. I want to be able to feel again."

"You will be. You are. You just have to let yourself feel. That's what happened, Cordy. You got so used to blocking out what hurt, you started blocking out every feeling. Wanna tell me about what happened with you and Doyle?"

"I used him." The words were the simple truth. No sugar coating, no dodging the question. "I had sex with him. And I used him to try to make myself feel something."

"And did you?"

"For a minute, I felt alive. And it was a rush. Is he angry with me?"

"No. Confused, feeling guilty, but no angry."

"Why is he feeling guilty?"

"Because he thinks that he exploited your vulnerability."

"Bullshit. I manipulated him and used him and we both know it."

"Yes, you did. But you don't both know it. He's in denial that you have any fault in the matter whatsoever."

Cordelia pulled on her pajamas. "You think it was a huge mistake."

"Yeah. At the moment. Maybe not in the future, but now wasn't the best time to let anything between the two of you happen."

"I wanted it to. Not just to feel something. I could've gone out and picked up some random guy and boinked his brains out. I wanted him." Cordelia piled her hair on top of her head. "Maybe it was always him."

"Could be. Now you have a chance to find out if it was always him that kept you from being happy, or from letting yourself be happy, with anyone else."

"For what it's worth, Angel, I'm sorry. For everything. For not being able to love you like you deserve. For not telling you about any of this. For thinking that you hated me, that you wished I had died."

"For a while, I did." Angel looked the most guilty she had ever seen him in her entire life. "You hurt me, Cordelia. I loved you, and you slept with my son. That felt like a knife through my heart. But I'm the one who should be sorry. I didn't see that you were already searching for ways to make your life meaningful again. I didn't see that you were in as much pain as I was, and I should have. If I had, then maybe we wouldn't just now be starting to get you better."

"So does this mean we're good?"

"We're good. I'm gonna get outta here. You and Doyle need to straighten some things out. Like your relationship, cause like it or not, you've got one. And Cordy, try to understand him a bit. He just got back from being dead. That's a hell of a trip."

"Angel."

He stopped at the door, turned to look at her. "Yeah?"

"See ya at work in the morning?"

"Eight sharp. Bring Doyle."

"Can I be really selfish for a minute?"

"Sure."

"Will things ever be the way they were? When we were just Angel Investigations and it was all we could do to keep ahead of the bad guys? When we were all close and didn't have to wonder if we were all still there for each other?"

Angel sighed, brooded for a moment. "I wish it could be, Cordy. I miss the way it was, too. But what we've got is a chance to make the whole world good. With the resources and contacts I have at Wolfram and Hart, there isn't a place in this world or any other that evil can hide."

"Only the ones we're representing, huh?"

Angel looked stricken for a moment. "I know it's hard to understand, and I know that it isn't what we're used to, but there has to be a balance kept."

Cordelia looked at him with eyes too old and sad for a twenty five year old woman. "I can't straddle the fence, Angel. I can't stake a vampire one night, and defend one in court the next. I can't do it. Every good thing I do is balanced with a bad, and I just can't take it anymore." She rubbed her wrist unconsciously, feeling the cut, hating it and herself. "We're becoming them. What we spent so long fighting. That's what we are now."

Angel turned and left, knowing she was right, and nearly hating her for it. Hating himself many times more. Doyle didn't try to stop him, had heard snippets of the conversation, enough to glean the needed information. So her job was part of Cordelia's problem. He could see why. Killing evil one time, helping it flourish the next. That would wear on anyone. He just hoped that she had gotten through to Angel. That she could get him to take a few steps into the past. Into what was good and right and needed to be done.

"Doyle, can we talk?"

Cordelia walked out in a pair of simple flannel pajamas the color of charcoal. Her hair was wet, in a bun on the top of her head. Her toenails were coral colored. He memorized everything about her in that one moment, when she seemed the most like the naïve, bright, promising girl he'd fallen in love with more than half a decade earlier. It was almost possible to believe that she wasn't as damaged as he knew she was.

"Yeah, sure, love. Why don't you sit down? You aren't nearly up to full strength yet."

Cordelia nodded, perched on the couch. He sat on the coffee table, facing her. They were both highly aware that just a few hours earlier they had been tangled up in each other in that exact same spot.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for this afternoon, for yesterday, for the way you found me. I'm sorry for making you concentrate on me when we should be concentrating on you and why you're here and if we get to keep you and making sure that you're okay. Cause coming back from the dead isn't easy and it has to be hard, and I've been really selfish and I haven't been fair at all. I used you and took advantage of you and it wasn't right and I'm sorry. I'm going to start trying. I think that's the only way I'll survive. And I'm going to start by helping you get back on your feet."

Doyle leaned back. "Are you quite finished?"

"I think so, yeah."

"I'm here for good and I'm back because the Higher Powers noticed that you needed some help that no one in your life now was going to give you. They sent me back, 'Delia, to help you get back on your feet. And you didn't use me or take advantage of me. What happened, happened, and we have to deal with it, but it wasn't anyone's fault."

"I attacked you."

"And I put up a vicious struggle, didn't I?"

Cordelia felt her first real smile in days appear on her face. "Yeah, you put up a major, fight, but I subdued you and had my wicked way with you."

Doyle laughed and got to his feet. "I think it'll be safer for everyone involved if I stand over here while we have this conversation."

"Can I talk first?"

"Sure."

Cordelia took a deep breath. "Contrary to the way it seems, I don't do things like that. Jump people in my living room. Other than you, I was only ever with two other men. That was Groo, who we met in Pylea where we rescued Fred, and Connor. So I don't want you to think I just wanted fast, meaningless sex and you were the closest available male. That wasn't it at all. Doyle, the thing that always got to me about me and you, and that has kept me from fully moving on was that I never had the chance to find out. We never had a chance to try. To see what would happen. I don't know if I could've loved you then. I was stupid, had very defined views on what I wanted and what I didn't, and you fell firmly into the didn't category.

"Then, at nineteen, I have no idea if we could have made it work. I don't know if I could have loved you, I'm not sure if you really loved me or the idea of me. Of the bright, unspoiled, down on her luck poor little rich girl who had a kind streak or me, who was actually a spoiled, bratty bitch. It's the truth. And we both know it. But now, if you're willing to take on the broken, tired, worn out ex Seer, then I'm willing to see what we can do together."

Doyle considered for a minute, appeared rather thoughtful. "I'm not going to force you into anything. We both have demons to slay. You're not the only one who isn't in top form, my love. We're going to go slow, and give ourselves time."

"Time is good. Doyle, you're only two years older than me now."

"That's right, I am."

Cordelia smiled again, and he could see a glimpse of who she'd used to be. Of who she could go back to being. She got to her feet, only slightly unsteady, and walked to him. "Is it moving too fast for your tastes if I ask you to kiss me? I don't think we really got around to much kissing this afternoon."

Doyle slid his arms around her, bringing her flush against him. It would be hard not to carry her off to bed every time he touched her now that he knew how she felt, how she tasted, how wild she went in his arms as she climaxed. But he would do it. For her sake, and for his, they were going to move slowly if it killed them. Which, Doyle mused as he laid his mouth over hers, it just might.

Cordelia's hands slipped up to frame his face, she shifted closer, enjoying the feel of his body against hers. It was safety and comfort, and everything she had forgotten he always seemed to represent. He took her mouth slowly, softly, teasing her, making her wish he would take more, give more.

And then he did. He parted her lips swiftly with his tongue, sank into the honeyed sweetness of her mouth. She tasted dark and rich, and he wanted to devour, had to hold himself in tight check. She groaned against his mouth, wrapped her own arms around him. It was going to be hard not to drag his clothes off every time he kissed her.

His hands skated over her curves, came to rest on her waist, nearly wrapping completely around her. She was so small, so fragile, and she needed time and help. Bu as she came to life in his arms, as her mouth became hungry on his and he felt her pulse quicken and the electricity he'd always known she produced start to flow, he had a great deal of hope that they would heal one another. That maybe becoming whole together was the atonement for each.

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If you read this, I want a review!


	4. A New Old Enemy

Okay everyone. Chapter 4. This is moving very well I think. To a couple of concerned reviewers, of which I have far too few, by the way, no, Cordy and Doyle are not going to be all over each other throughout the story. The early sex was important to show the damage, but they're not going to be jumping into bed at every given opportunity. A lot of it is about resistance, and doing what's right. So, rest assured, sex is not the driving force in this. And also, about Angel wanting Cordy back at work the next day, he was trying to get things back to normal. I'm sorry that wasn't made obvious, but that was what I intended.

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Cordelia went to bed early, was asleep by nine o'clock. She was planning on going to work for a few hours the next day, not to actually work, but to see everyone and talk to Angel some more. She had a feeling that she had hurt his feelings with all that she had said.

She knew that he wasn't going to expect her to work anyway. He was worried, she could see it in his eyes when he looked at her. He wanted things back to normal, too. Not nearly as badly as she did though. She wanted to be able to feel things, to get butterflies, to fall in love, to be angry, to be aggravated.

And she needed things to get back to normal. To save her life. To help Doyle. Which, she knew, would help her in the long run. She needed to be needed. And she was. He needed her. To help him learn to live again.

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Cordelia was waken at midnight by a sharp yell at one in the morning. She bolted from bed, flying on blind instinct. She bolted across the apartment, into the spare bedroom. Doyle was asleep, thrashing as if in the clutches of some horrible monster. She crawled onto the bed, seized his shoulders.

"Doyle! Doyle! Wake up!"

Cordelia shook him, squealing when his eyes shot open and he flew into a sitting position, dragging her into his lap. She clutched at his arms to keep her balance, pulling him close so she could comfort him, murmuring soothing nonsensical words as he held onto her. Yes, this was what she needed. For someone to need her help. To need her to take care of them, even in a way as small as that.

She stroked his hair, his face, rocking back and forth while he escaped the clutches of his nightmare. When he had calmed, loosened his grip on her, she sat back, looked at him with concern evident on her face and in her eyes. "What was it?"

Doyle shook his head. "I saw you die."

"Me die? I'm not going to die." Cordelia soothed, "I'm right here and I'm going to stay here."

Doyle pulled her close, needing to hold more than he needed to be held. "I've gotten prophetic dreams before, darlin'. They work the same as visions. Maybe something's after you."

Cordelia curled in closer, her small arms still tightly around him, her hands rubbing his back. "It's all right Doyle. The only thing I'm in danger from is myself."

"No, it's something bigger, something more dangerous."

"Like what, Doyle? What can possibly be after me?"

Doyle shook his head as if to clear it. "Something not so happy I'm back. I'm sure me coming back set off all kinds of warning bells in the demonic world."

"Probably, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Cordelia, who in the world would want me to stay dead more than anyone else?" he questioned, raking his hands through his hair. "I thought I could help, but all I've managed to do is make it worse."

"What are you talking about? Doyle, you aren't making any sense."

"The Scourge, 'Delia. The Scourge is after you."

"We defeated the Scourge a long time ago." Cordelia switched back into the role of comforter. "There's nothing coming after me. The Scourge is long gone."

"That's what you think. They're coming back, 'Delia, and they aren't happy I'm alive. They're even less happy that you brought me back."

"I didn't bring you back, though. The PTB sent you back."

It had actually been the Oracles, but he wasn't going to argue with her. "Because you needed me. Because you still grieved for me and needed me to help you get through this. Do you have any idea how good it would have been for all of them if you would have died like you were supposed to? No Seer to worry about. No half demon side kick of Angel's. No one he really cared about. It would have made their decade. But you survived, by the skin of your teeth, no doubt, but you made it. And then you started slowly wasting away, and just as they get real hopeful, I come back to help. They want us both dead, darlin', and they'll be willing to do anything and everything to insure that we die as planned."

Cordelia couldn't help but admit that his reasoning made sense. For all her bravado and certainly, inside she was in a turmoil. Wondering if it wouldn't have been better for her to have just let go and gone when the end had been so close. Wondering if she should have wished for Doyle's return. Put him through all the pain and suffering when it just seemed like it was going to be for nothing. They would both die by the hand of the Scourge this time, and they would go together. That was the only bright spot in the whole thing.

Doyle sense what was going on inside her head, took her firmly by the chin. "This is not your fault." He told her gently, sternly nonetheless. "None of this is your fault. We'll get through this, and we'll get through it together. Understand?"

Cordelia nodded, though she wasn't convinced. "What do we do?"

"Nothing tonight. We're going to get some sleep." He tugged her down with him, wrapped his arms around her slight form. "And you're going to stay right here where I can keep an eye on you."

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Sorry this was so short guys. I've got a lot going on. Just got through graduation, and I've got finals this week for the college courses I've been taking so I've been studying like crazy.


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